healthy attitude
by cedricsowner
Summary: Guerrero and Ilsa after the team lost a client. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Chance's latest escapade had left a giant bloodspot on her 200 dollar blouse, but that wasn't why she was so upset. She also wasn't so upset because he had gotten himself hurt. According to Winston and Guerrero the injury wasn't that bad and she had seen him bleeding before. No, what drove her up the walls, totally, was…

Ah, she didn't want to think about it anymore. For tonight she had enough – enough of ex-assassins, ex-cops, ex-thieves, even enough of ex-puppies that once belonged to a client of the "job gone south"-category.

Enough!

In an attempt to get rid of the memory of today's unfortunate events as fast as possible, Ilsa started unbuttoning her ruined blouse as soon as she stepped into her apartment.

Her subconsciousness registered the smell of freshly prepared food just in time to stop herself from completely removing her garment.

"What in the world are you doing here?"

Guerrero, standing in her kitchen area, a pan in his hand, raised one eyebrow in reply and she could almost hear Chance's voice: "Give it a minute. You'll figure it out."

Ilsa didn't feel up to any kind of conversation right now and stomped upstairs, seeking refuge in her bathroom. Maybe he would catch the hint and be gone when she got out again.

Yeah, sure.

_Guerrero._

Ilsa, darling, he must have made a copy of your keycard to get into your apartment this smoothly. You really think he'll disappear again, just because you slam a door behind you?

She took her time to shower and change clothes. When she got out of the bathroom she felt recharged enough to compliment him out of her apartment with some well-chosen, polite, but firm phrases.

He put down a plate full of food on the table and suddenly she was overwhelmed by intense hunger.

The dish was a meaty mess of sauce, noodles, onions, probably garnished with chili and black pepper. She wolfed it down as if she hadn't eaten in days. Years of boarding school education went out the window. Only after the plate was already three quarters empty she realized what she was doing and looked, mouth still full, shocked at her feral outbreak, up at Guerrero sitting in front of her.

"We used to call it _Junior fifteen, _now it's_ Chance fifteen_", Guerrero explained. "The term refers to the extra pounds you gather through compensatory eating in the first year of working with Chance. Some don't stop at fifteen, though. Winston used to dance ballet in his free time."

The image was too much. She burst out laughing, spraying food all over Guerrero's face. He looked at her, pursed his lips, took off his glasses and started to wipe them, slowly, methodically, calmly.

"Chance is getting on my nerves!", Ilsa suddenly blurted out.

"I mean, it's really sad that the client died, but for heaven's sake, he brought it upon himself! He lied to us! He tried to con us! He didn't follow our instructions in crucial moments! The guy was an idiot! He's definitely not worth to embark on a full-fledged guilt trip for!" Ilsa buried her face in her hands, rubbing her eye region madly in a vain attempt to get rid of the image of Chance, sinking into a deep brooding session over the man's death. She had left him in Winston's custody, unable to stand the sight any longer.

Guerrero put his glasses back on.

Ilsa looked up at him, once again shocked at her own behavior: "Did I just break into a rant over a dead man? A recently violently murdered dead man? Did I call him _an idiot_?"

"You're developing a healthy attitude regarding the jobs we take. Good for you."

For a moment none of them said a word. Finally Ilsa pushed the plate away, newly found strength surging through her body. It had felt good, venting her frustration.

"I've recently purchased a version of _La donna del lago_, performed by the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra in 1966. Very rare recording. Would you like to listen?"

They retreated to the living-room area where she not only set the player in motion but also produced a bottle of red wine and glasses.

"You already knew I had bought that record, didn't you?"

Guerrero grinned and poured the wine.

Ilsa couldn't help but laugh and it wasn't the only time that evening. It was way past midnight when Guerrero finally left. Drowsy from food, conversation, wine and opera, Ilsa crawled into bed. She thought about the deceased client again. Despite the laughter, she hadn't forgotten about him.

His demise saddened her. Of course it did. A life lost forever, that was sad. But they had done their best.

And sometimes that was it.


End file.
